More Than Words
by OfPearlsAndShoelaces
Summary: "The star- crossed lovers are a matched set. We don't want to destroy the illusion of your love by having you be intimate with other people. But demand is higher than ever, and there is an alternative. You will sleep with each other. On camera." At the end of their ill-fated Victory Tour, Katniss and Peeta face a different set of circumstances. Adult content and mature themes.
1. Prologue

**A/N: **I want to preface this by reiterating that this fic contains adult content- smut/lemons/sex- whatever you prefer to call it. If you are underage or not comfortable with this, then please proceed with caution. Otherwise, please enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games

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_The room reeks of overly scented roses and the sharp, metallic tang of copper. The harsh perfume immediately assaults my senses upon entering the opulent office, settling like a fog in my brain and setting my nerves on edge. Katniss's hand spasms in mine. _

"_Mr. Mellark and Miss Everdeen, how lovely to see you both! Please take a seat." President Snow gestures to the two plush chairs in front of his desk, and I'm forced drop my tight hold on Katniss's hand as we obey. My hand feels cold and empty without hers laced through it. _

_The President settles in the chair behind his desk, taking his time scrutinizing us with those bottomless eyes. The silence stretches on for what feels like hours, the tension in the room palpable. Snow allows it to build to an impossibly high point before he finally speaks. _

"_I must begin by congratulating both of you. You've done well convincing the districts of your love throughout the duration of your Victory Tour, and the country is absolutely infatuated with the pair of you." Snow pauses to enjoy the effect of his words, but I refuse to let up my poker face. There must be more. This is simply too good to be true. The insinuation that we truly prevented a rebellion by proving our "love" to the country with false kisses and pretty words is complete and utter bullshit, and everyone present knows it._

"_The event of having two victors is…unprecedented, to say the least, not to mention having two such _desirable_ victors as yourselves," Snow continues, a cruel smile curling his puffy lips. "As I'm sure you know, victors are much revered here in the Capitol. People simply love you- the exotic, triumphant species of the districts. In fact, many of our residents in the city will pay handsomely for the _special_ company of one such victor."_

_My stomach sinks to my feet. Snow's words break through the overwhelming cloud of fear and nerves in my head and I think I understand what he means. I've heard the whispers passing through the crowds during our many Capitol parties. Enough to gather a vague idea of what happens to select Victors after their Games, anyway. Haymitch became strangely silent and deflected the question when I asked him about it, but his refusal to answer only confirmed my suspicions._

_Katniss and I are the famous star- crossed lovers of District 12, the reigning co-champions of the Hunger Games. We are _special_ and _desirable_ and the Capitol _loves_ us. We are still children. But that does not matter to Snow, because he is going to sell our bodies. He intends to force us into prostitution. _

_Chancing my first glance at Katniss since the beginning of this little "meeting," I can see that she has not yet comprehended Snow's speech for what it is. I never shared my suspicions with her, unable to justify adding yet another fresh terror to inspire her nightmares. Now, though, I wish I had said something because she's completely in the dark, about to be blind- sighted in the worst possible way. But for all her confusion, Katniss is no less defiant as she stares boldly back into the President's icy glare. Caught in a deadly staring contest with the devil himself. _

_Snow's hands are folded in front of him on the desk, his snake-like tongue darting out to moisten his lips, but his eyes begin to move away from hers. He allows his gaze to rove up and down her body, (which in Cinna's beautifully crafted dress is accentuated to its full potential) an expression of intense hunger twisting his face. _

_Rage and anger flare up in me like never before. How dare he look at her like that? How dare he sit there, cool and collected as ever, while condemning us to this terrible fate? He is a disgusting, perverted man, and I have the sudden urge to strangle him with my bare hands. If I was alone with him, I might do just that. The Peacekeepers outside the door would surely kill me, but that is a risk I would be willing to take. It's Katniss's life I won't risk, so I remain seated in my chair, the knuckles of my hand stark white from my restraining grip on the armrests._

"_What are you saying? Are you going to sell us, then?" I spit. Anything to get him to stop salivating at Katniss like a starving Seam child looks at a loaf of bread in the bakery window. He turns toward me slowly, smile back in place on his repulsive face. Katniss whips her head to me as well, her eyes wide, hands clasped over her mouth. She's finally understood. _

"_Well, well, you catch on fast, don't you Mr. Mellark?" Snow's leer does not waver, but his tone is colored with surprise, evidently impressed that I caught on so quickly. I don't dignify his statement with a response though, so after a moment of heavy silence, he continues. "The answer to your question, Mr. Mellark, is yes and no. You see the star- crossed lovers are a matched set. We wouldn't want to destroy the illusion of your great 'love' to the entire country by having you _service_ other people. Secrets such as that have a way of getting out, do they not? Your relationship would be ruined in the eyes of the public, and I might just find myself with a full- scale rebellion on my hands." He gives a mirthless laugh, as though the idea is ludicrous. _

_Again, I keep my face impassive because I'm waiting with baited breath for the kicker, and sure enough, it comes. _

"_However, the demand is higher than ever, and I have several people ready to pay exorbitant amounts of money for the pair of you, and so I have decided on an alternative. You will service each other. On camera."_

_My insides don't seem to exist anymore. The bomb Snow just dropped has vaporized them, and I sit in the chair a weightless puddle of sinewy skin and blinding fury. _

_I want to kill him. This man personally responsible for the deaths of hundreds of children for the entertainment of other sick people; this man who prostitutes the rest. I want to rage about the injustice of it all, but I have no power here. Any outward display of emotion-anger, fear, or otherwise- could cost me dearly. Snow would see it as a weakness, and I refuse to show any such thing in front of him. Never again will I allow myself to be the pathetic, crying boy on the reaping stage. _

_Katniss looks as though she may be sick, her hands, like mine, gripping her armrests. I have the sudden desire to pry her hand from the chair and run far away, never look back. But that is not an option. We are Snow's prey, trapped in this room with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and the maniacal grin on his face proves that he knows it. _

_With us, his targets, cornered, Snow opens those bloated lips of his, and through his curiously stained teeth, he says, "Filming begins tomorrow." _

"Peeta?" Katniss's shaky whisper shatters the silence in our dark Capitol bedroom. She's snuggled into her usual spot against my chest, and even before she spoke into the night, I could tell by the absence of her usual deep breathing and soft snores that I was not the only one lying awake.

"Hmm?" I say, turning my head so I can look into her eyes. They have become a bewitching shade of silver in the moonlight streaming through the open window.

"Have you ever…" she trails off, unable to vocalize the rest of the question. She doesn't need to, though, because I know her so well by now. It seems that her mind, like mine, refuses to dwell on anything but what we are to do only a few short hours from now.

"Had sex?" I finish the question for her and answer it in one fell swoop. "Twice."

Her body stiffens against me in the dark, her fingers retract against my chest, but all she says is, "Oh." There's a foreign emotion tainting her voice that I can't quite define. Jealousy perhaps? Or is it resentment? I can't be sure because after my confession I'm determined not to look at her. I trace my forefinger on the comforter's pattern to avoid her piercing gaze.

Katniss doesn't push for details, however, and I'm glad because I would rather forget those other girls, too. After all was said and done, neither of them really meant anything to me. They were just poor substitutes for the girl huddled against me now- the girl who will never want me back. At the very least, this conversation does open the door for me to ask the question that's been niggling in the back of mind for years now, whenever I saw her with _him_.

"What about you?" I'm careful to ask it in a delicately detached tone and avoid any words that will cause her further discomfort (i.e. _sex_ and _Gale_).

To my surprise, I feel her shake her head _no _on the pillow next to me. I finally let my eyes flit back to hers. "Really?" I shouldn't push it but I have to know for sure. "Not even Gale…?"

"No," Katniss says firmly. "No, I never… It's not like _that_ between us. I found out after the Games that Gale wanted… but I never did." Despite our current predicament, the jealous, self- indulgent side of myself that I try so hard to ignore (yet nevertheless exists) rejoices. I've already gotten further with Katniss than Gale could ever dream.

We lay in tense silence for another moment before Katniss speaks again. Her bottom lip is clenched between her teeth, and her beautiful sterling eyes are on the verge of tears. "I don't want my first time to be on camera," she chokes out before a single tear slides down her cheek. I swipe it away with my thumb and crush her even closer to my chest as if I can hide her away from the world. I want nothing more than to keep this girl safe in my arms, because I know exactly where this is headed and I don't like it. It feels all wrong. "Can we…" she doesn't finish the though, but again, it does not matter. I know what she wants. And I can't do it.

"Katniss…"

"Please? It's going to happen tomorrow anyway, and I… I can't let Snow take that, too," she pleads with me, and I know I'll surrender. I've always had a weakness for the girl with the braid, the girl who sings so beautifully that even the birds stop to listen. I can deny her nothing when she begs it of me. Besides, I've wanted this so badly for such a long time. It's just that I never though it would be like this.

All at once, the innumerable fantasies I've dreamt up over the years as I stroked myself in the dead of night swim to the forefront of my mind.

_Katniss_, below me and moaning in ecstasy, her luscious body inviting me deeper into its exquisite depths. _Katniss_, squirming with need as I tease her relentlessly. _Katniss_, writhing and screaming my name as she comes…

_Shit_. I'm getting hard just thinking about it, and here's the real thing right in front of me, begging me to take her here and now. A single glance into her terrified, steadfast face snaps any of my remaining restraint in half.

I sigh, resigned to do this for her. "Okay, but I want you to tell me to stop at any point if you're hurt or uncomfortable. " She gives a jerky nod of her head, her trembling fingers reaching for the hem of her nightgown, but I stay her wrists. "No," I shake my head, "We're gonna take it slow."

If I must do this, I decide, I'm going to do it right. I'm going ensure that this is as pleasurable as possible for her. I'm going to make Katniss Everdeen scream for me.

Caressing her flushed olive cheek with my hand, I lower my mouth to hers- the very first time with no audience. I'm so nervous that it seems to take forever for our lips to meet, but when they finally do, hers are warm and soft, pliable against my own. This is how we always kiss for the cameras and the crowds; it's never gone further than the chaste moving of lips and occasional fumbling of hands, but this time I let my tongue trace the seam of her mouth. She startles at first, but soon welcomes the intrusion, allowing me to lave my tongue over hers. She lets me savor her, taste her, explore her mouth before she begins to respond with equal enthusiasm, sucking my bottom lip into her mouth to worry it gently between her teeth.

I can't contain the strangled moan that escapes my throat, and it seems to spur Katniss's confidence. Her hands are gradually unclenching from their tight fists to glide over my neck and shoulders, leaving a trail of burning heat as she goes.

Following Katniss's lead, I let my fingers trace only as far as hers. When her hands trail along my neck and back, I let mine smooth over the satin skin of her shoulders. I find the end of her long braid and comb my fingers through the plaits until her hair fans in glossy waves on the feather pillow.

Gradually, I move my lips from hers to suckle lightly at her neck, planting small, wet kisses along her collarbone. I make my way down further, and she gasps when I reach the curve of her breast peeking out from the low neckline of her nightgown. My eyes snap to make contact with hers, silently asking if this is okay. In answer, she twists her fingers into the hair at the nape of my neck, guiding me down to her chest. I pepper the tops of her breasts with small kisses; tease her hard nipples through the fabric still hiding them from view.

I can practically see her heart pounding in her chest as she pants, arches into me in need of more contact, but I wrench myself away from her to lift the hem of her nightdress. Together, we pull it over her head and let the silky material float to the floor.

I could swear my heart stops beating as I drink in the sight of the gloriously naked girl below me, her lacy underwear the only scrap of material remaining on her body. _God, she's so beautiful._ Her breasts are small, but still round and perfect and topped with peaked, rosy nipples that no one's ever seen before. _Only me._ The thought makes me grow even harder, my cock twitching with need in the confines of my shorts.

But I can't do anything about that yet. This is the first time I'll be with a girl who's never done this before, and the advice my brothers gave to me from what feels like a lifetime ago comes to mind. _You have to loosen her up first. Relax her, make her feel good. And don't you dare come before she does._

Although it's dark, I can still see the color rising to Katniss's cheeks as I stare. She seems to be having an internal struggle- her natural instinct likely being to cover herself, to hide her vulnerability as she so often does behind her bow and arrow. Yet she resists the temptation to conceal her nakedness, keeping her arms stiffly at her sides and allowing me to see all of her. I long to reassure her, to tell her how flawless and stunning and _amazing_ she is.

But I can't.

I remind myself that she does not love me, not the way that I love her. She doesn't even truly want this. We've been forced into this situation, I have to keep that in mind. I can't let my feelings for her distress and confuse her further. And yet these feelings for her are so overwhelming, so all- consuming, that I can almost forget that we'll have to do this on camera in less than 24 hours. Almost.

Eventually, my desire for Katniss outweighs the Capitol taint of the whole thing, and pushing aside the unpleasant thoughts, I drop my head back to her chest. She moans low in her throat when I lavish my tongue over each of her erect nipples in turn. I let my fingers drift down her stomach to the waistband of her underwear. When I pull them off, I find her completely bare.

This is not of Katniss's own volition, of course, but evidence of the grueling, hours- long prepping she'd endured earlier in the day. Even my own prep time had been much more involved than it was for the Hunger Games, because the audience will see _everything_ this time. Each burn scar I'd managed to gain in the time I'd been back home, along with every unsavory blemish on my body had been buffed clean away, although unlike Katniss, I had been allowed to keep most of my natural body hair.

I rather like the feel of her silken folds against my fingers, but I know it's only adding to her self- consciousness and increasing her feeling of vulnerability because her thighs clench together at my touch. Moving my hand down her soft thigh, I let my lips find hers again, kissing her slowly, deeply, seeking to reassure and calm her.

"You need to let yourself relax," I murmur into her mouth. "Deep breaths." She follows my advice, taking several long, shuddering breaths. "Good," I praise her, giving her the softest of kisses. "Have you ever touched yourself, Katniss?" She pulls away from me, eyes wide, and gives a tiny nod, an even darker flush staining her cheeks.

"Show me."

She hesitates, but takes my hand and directs it to the glistening bud of nerves at her center. She moves my fingers in the tight, circular motions she likes, and once I catch the rhythm, I remove her fingers. Soon she's gripping my biceps, panting for breath, and writhing beneath me.

It's even better than I imagined.

I can see her struggling to hold on, her firm grip on me anchoring her to reality. I let one of my fingers slide into her slick arousal, curling it forward, and forcing a strained, mewling whimper from her mouth. My cock throbs with need again. She is close.

"Come on, Katniss. Come for me, baby," I urge her, increasing the pressure on her clit and adding a second finger inside of her.

It happens in an instant. Her back bows off the bed, her head falls back, and a strangled, divine scream emits from her throat.

I can't take it anymore. While she comes down from her high, gasping and shaking, I whip off my shirt and pants to allow my stiff, aching cock to spring free at last. Her eyes widen as she takes in the sight of me, finally naked before her. There is both longing and apprehension on her face.

Following her gaze as it trails down my body, it is then that I remember the leg. "Sorry," I mutter, shifting so that my prosthetic is behind me. I know that Katniss has seen glimpses of the leg, but never in its entirety. I always wear long pants to bed for fear of disgusting her with its presence. I've grown used to it in the months since the Games, having grudgingly accepted that it is now a part of me. For the most part, the high- quality equipment functions like a normal leg should, but I still hate that an essential piece of myself is a product of the Capitol.

Katniss, however, surprises me with her response. "No, it's not that… it's just… I don't think you'll fit," she says barely audible, the blush coloring her cheeks darker than ever in the moonlight.

I have to force back a smile. Sometimes I forget just how pure Katniss really is. It's funny to think that this girl can face down bears in the woods without breaking a sweat, can murder others to ensure her own survival, and yet the sight of a naked man intimidates her. It actually endears me more to her, and I almost hate to be the one to destroy that innocence. I also don't want to hurt her. I never want anything to hurt Katniss.

I bend to kiss her once more, swiping the loose hairs from her sweaty face as I go. "We don't have to do it if you don't want," I assure her. The last thing I want is to force myself on her, despite the situation. But there is something else in Katniss's eyes- the steely glint of determination. She has already made up her mind.

She keeps her grey eyes locked on mine as she reaches tentatively toward my cock. Her small hand just manages to wrap around the base and she strokes the shaft from base-to-tip once, twice, three times. It feels so good, I'm forced to follow my own advice and take deep breaths to calm down. I won't last long if she keeps doing this.

Before she goes too far, I roll us so that Katniss hovers over me. "What-" she sputters, clearly thrown off by this turn of events.

"You're going to be on top," I explain gently. "This way you can set the pace. You can go as slow or as fast as you need." She's still eyeing me apprehensively, nerves etched in every line of her face, but her conviction wins out. She swings her leg over my stomach so that she's straddling me, my cock trapped between our sweaty bodies.

"Wait!" Another piece of my brothers' advice suddenly floods my brain. _Condoms, little brother. Never forget. Mom would skin you alive if you ever got a girl pregnant. Unless of course, the baby is a girl…_ "I don't have anything. You know, to prevent-"

"Oh! Um, well they gave me a shot today during prep, so we don't have to worry about… um… about anything," Katniss assures me awkwardly.

I guess that will save us from having to deal with condoms on camera tomorrow, but I'm glad it will serve for our purposes tonight because I'm not sure I could stop now even if I wanted to. I can feel the hot, wet puddle of her center against me, and I want nothing more than to push myself up into her dripping heat. But I resist, watch her line me up at her entrance, and _oh_.

It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to come the instant my head disappears into her folds. A groan escapes me as she takes me farther into her body. My hands fist in the sheets from the effort of holding back from thrusting the rest of the way into her. Instead, I train my focus on the incredibly strong, beautiful girl before me. Her face is twisted in pain but she refuses to give into it as she sinks ever lower onto me. I have nothing but love and admiration for her.

Then all at once, my entire length is sheathed within her and she collapses onto my chest with an agonized whimper. I feel horrible. I never wanted to hurt her, never wanted to be the cause of her pain. The guilt is almost enough to distract myself from the wonderful feeling of being inside her.

I smooth my hands tenderly up and down Katniss's back; run them through her silky hair, whisper soothing comforts in her ear. "That's right, Katniss. You did so well. Take your time, baby," I tell her, contenting myself with suckling gently at the sweet, salty skin at the base of her neck while she breathes raggedly against my chest.

We gasp in unison when she finally shifts herself on top of me, my hips bucking upward of their own accord. I search her face for any sign of further discomfort, but find none, so I thrust again. This time it is slower, a delicious torture as I reach to the very deepest point of her. She braces her hands on my chest, rolls her hips experimentally, and together we find a steady rhythm. The discomfort seems to be fading from Katniss's features, and wanting her to feel the same overwhelming pleasure that I do, I begin to circle my thumb over her sensitive bundle of nerves again. Breathless whines tumble from her plush lips, and among the indistinguishable sounds falling from her mouth, one word is clear:

"_Peeta_," Katniss mewls, and that is it.

My name is a divine prayer on her lips and the sound of it sends me hurtling over the edge into an abyss of pleasure. Stars burst behind my eyelids, and along with the ecstasy thrumming through my veins is pure _love_ for the girl in my bed now. She is the only real thing in the entire world. Katniss, the girl with the raven- colored braid and the smoky eyes; the girl who can silence the birds with her angelic voice. I love her and she loves me. In this moment, we are one.

And then it is gone.

I'm brought back to earth with a resounding shock when I open my eyes to see the Capitol seal framed on the opposite wall. The reality of our situation crashes down upon me, and I remember why we're here, why I'd been reluctant to do this in the first place.

It's not real. None of it is real.

The girl splayed across my chest does not love me, and I am a fool for allowing myself to believe- even for a second- that she does. The lump in my throat is forming quickly; tears are pricking my eyes. I have to get away before they spill over.

Rolling out from underneath her as quickly as I can, I mutter something about needing to use the bathroom. When I get there, I lock the door and turn on the shower before allowing the grief and rage and shame to overtake me.

The tears flow hot and salty down my cheeks, but I make no effort to stop them. I step into the scalding shower, wanting desperately to wash the heady combination of sex and bodily fluids from myself. I scrub my freshly buffed skin relentlessly until it is red and raw- my prep team will no doubt be horrified when they see it tomorrow morning- but I don't care. I feel used, filthy, despicable; and no amount of scrubbing can change that.

It is a long time later when I finally emerge from the bathroom, eyes swollen and skin stinging. Katniss is curled in a ball under the tangle of blankets on the bed, once again dressed in her nightgown. I doubt that she's really asleep, but it is easier to pretend than to face what we have done- what we will have to do again in a few short hours- and so I let her lie still and silent while I locate my pajama pants.

What I do not expect when I climb into bed is for her to snuggle up against me; but she does, and I find myself wrapping my arms around her like every other night. She buries her face in my chest again. I can feel tears on her cheeks, her heartbeat pounding erratically against mine. These things seem to say what Katniss herself cannot: _I'm sorry_.

And just like that, my heart melts for this girl, my anger at her long dissipated. It is not fair to blame Katniss, not really. She is in the exact same position as me and we _are_ a team, after all. Snow wants to turn us against each other, but I will not let that happen. I know who the real enemy is, and it is certainly _not_ the teenaged girl nestled in my arms.

This knowledge solidifies my resolve. Snow can throw whatever he wants at us, but the star-crossed lovers of District 12 will stand united. Always.

I press a lingering kiss to the top of Katniss's head, a silent apology for abandoning her after our coupling. She burrows closer to me in response. I tighten my arms around her, close my eyes, and will sleep to overtake me. We'll at least need to be well-rested if we are to repeat this performance for the cameras tomorrow night.

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**A/N:** Thank you so much for reading! As of now this is a one-shot. However, if it garners enough interest, I might consider adding to it. Please let me know in the reviews what you think so I know if it's even worth writing more! I'm still fairly new to writing smut and this is the first time I've attempted it from the male perspective, so I'm curious to see if that worked for you as well.

Like any other fanfic writer, I love getting feedback. I cherish every single review. Your thoughts, praise, con-crit, etc. are always welcome.

You can find/message/follow me on tumblr at: **burnmewithfiredrownmewithrain dot tumblr dot com**


	2. Part 1

**A/N:** First of all, I'd like to that everyone for the reviews, favorites, and follows on this fic! Every single one of you holds a special place in my heart, and you've inspired me to continue with this story. I'm calling the first part the prologue with this chapter picking up a few months later. I toyed with the idea of writing it through Peeta's POV because there are generally fewer fics with him as the main narrator, but I started writing and it came out as Katniss. It makes more sense with the arc of the story, so the rest will be told from her perspective.

Again, please be aware that this fic contains adult content- this chapter includes some _very_ mild bdsm. Without further ado, here is Part 1!

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I'm staring up at the ceiling, just waiting for it to end. It feels like we've been in this room for hours and it's a struggle for me to contort the grimace on my face into an expression of pleasure or lust or ecstasy as Peeta thrusts in and out of me.

My eyes slip from their determined stare at the crown molding to find his immaculately blue eyes just inches from my face. I can't miss the sorrowful apology in their crystalline depths.

He hates doing this to me, maybe even more than I despise it myself. But he sees the conflict in my eyes and dutifully dips his head to kiss the scowl from my lips, sloppy and rough, but still tender as only Peeta can be. He won't let them see my weakness. He covers for me in front of the cameras just as he always has done, perpetually helping to camouflage my sore lack of acting ability. His soft lips leave mine for a moment when he gives an almost imperceptible nod of his head. He is close.

We've developed a sort of short- hand during the many occasions we've had to "perform" here in this room. As a result, my knowledge of Peeta's body and mannerisms surpasses my ability to read even Gale's in all our years of hunting together as a seamless team.

Peeta's nod is my cue. I throw back my head and arch my chest into his, letting out a loud, exaggerated moan in an attempt to exude the epitome of pleasure. Apparently I've failed again, however, because Peeta swallows my moan in another kiss. With a final thrust from him, I feel his release.

He slumps on top of me, careful to keep most of his weight on his elbows. I know he does not assume this position out of exhaustion, but to give me a minimal amount of modesty and protection from the prying cameras. Not that it really matters. In our several weeks of these "sessions," as President Snow refers to them, the wealthiest of the Capitol's citizens have seen the entirety of my body from every angle possible.

Still, the gesture is sweet and so incredibly _Peeta_ that it makes my heart swell. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip to hold back the tears and vomit threatening to choke me.

It's a marked improvement from our first session, after which I hadn't been able to hold back at all, and proceeded to retch all over the floor. The guilt that haunted Peeta's features in that moment has never really gone away. It faded after some time, but always reappears when we're here in this room. So eventually I learned to control my emotions. It is something with which I have years of practice, but is somehow much more difficult to do here in this room where I am naked and open and vulnerable for the world to see.

Despite this, I have mastered the careful, emotionless mask currently plastered on my face. Both to shield myself from the gawking cameras and to save Peeta from witnessing the pain I feel inside. I can't deny that he is more perceptive than I give him credit for, though. He always sees through my mask. It's merely his own agony reflected back at him through my gray, hunter's eyes.

Peeta's panting breaths are slowing. I long to touch him. To stroke his hair or caress his face as his heart rate returns to normal, but my hands are tightly bound to the bedpost above my head- a special request from President Snow himself.

"_A wonderful opportunity to make use of the knots you learned in training,"_ Snow had told us, his unnaturally plump lips bared in a menacing smile. I try not to shudder at the memory, and settle for kissing Peeta's shoulder, hoping the gesture comes across as comforting.

Finally, the familiar knock comes at the door to signify the end of the session. The cameras are off. The act is up.

He peels his sweaty body away from me at last and I shiver as the cool air hits my damp skin. Peeta hurriedly fumbles to free my wrists, and then grabs his robe from the floor, handing it to me with his eyes averted. He always tries to give me a bit of privacy in the moments after to collect myself, but I know he also does it because he has trouble looking me in the eyes after it happens. He told me once that it feels like he is violating me over and over again, and I suppose that is true, in a way. I don't want to do it, but neither does he. Not like this.

I can feel the soreness setting in already. It always does after a long week of filming in the Capitol. My arms and legs feel like leaden weights as I lay wrapped in the robe on the silk sheets of the bed. I don't think I could move even if I wanted to.

Peeta returns to sit down at the foot of the bed to pull on his pants. It's then that I see the angry, pink streaks on his back where my stiletto heels had dug into his pale skin. The sight of it endeavors me to move at last, my head swimming as I sit up and crawl to the edge of the mattress, ghosting my fingers over the raised wounds.

"I'm sorry," I murmur at last, giving the marks a tender kiss. "I didn't realize I dug in so hard."

Peeta turns his reproachful gaze on me. "It's not your fault, Katniss," he says quietly. "I know you hate those shoes." A look of understanding passes between us. We both hate the shoes. I bite my lip again to stave off the tears.

Peeta stands swiftly, pulls on his shirt, and ventures across the room to where my clothes lay in a heap. When he returns, he hooks my bra around my back for me, then slips my dress over my shoulders before bending to assist me with the bands of the unforgiving heels. Once he has freed the last strap, I fling the hateful thing off my foot and across the room, where it leaves a sizeable dent in the wall.

_Good. Maybe they won't trust me with those anymore._

My spiteful thought is mirrored in Peeta's furrowed brow. After a brief pause during which we sulk at the dented wall, he slides my much more comfortable and practical flats onto my feet, then grabs my hand.

On the way out of this hated room, we tiptoe around the shredded pieces of what was once my "costume" as though it will burst into flames if we were to touch it. I have to choke back the vomit again.

Back on the train, Peeta holds me close and strokes my hair as I cry myself to sleep.

* * *

The next morning, I wake to Haymitch banging on the door of our train compartment. "Get up, you two! We'll be back to twelve in an hour!" Haymitch gives the door one final pound with his fist before the sound of his heavy footsteps fades down the hallway. Headed for the bar, probably.

Haymitch, in all honesty, does not need to make these trips to the Capitol, but he grudgingly goes under the guise of "victor's duties" with Peeta and me. This way, my mother, Prim, and Peeta's family will remain none the wiser about what really occurs there.

Once I peel my face away from Peeta's tear- stained shirt, he rolls out of the bed and traipses into the bathroom, returning a few moments later with a cool, damp rag.

"For the puffiness," he explains, placing the cloth over my eyes.

Of course. My fit last night was bound to leave its mark, and Prim and my mother can't find out about it. Peeta rubs my back as I hold the cloth to my face, but doesn't offer anything more in the way of conversation. It's no use talking about it. There is nothing we can do. Not if we want to keep our families safe. Snow had been crystal clear on that.

"_Filming begins tomorrow." _

_My heart pounds in my throat as I absorb Snow's words. I try to be like Peeta, who -thanks to his superb acting skills- looks positively relaxed. You might even think he was bored. The only thing betraying his stress is his white-knuckled grip on the arm of his chair. But I don't have that capability. I'm overwhelmed with the information I've just been given, and the cloying stench of blood and roses reeking from every corner of this room is not helping. I'm close to hyperventilating as my breath comes out in sharp gasps. _

_My only thought is that I must stop this from happening. "You can't make us do this!" I blurt without thinking. The president inclines his head pleasantly toward me. _

"_Certainly. If that is your choice, then so be it. You may be on your way, and please, do give my regards to that precious little sister of yours." _

_At this, he has me. And he knows it. His unfathomable eyes tell me so. Snow quirks his head, the evil leer curling his lips before he elaborates further. "Primrose, isn't it?" he says, savoring the effect his threat has on me. "She's still of reaping age, if I remember correctly. It would be a shame if anything happened to her." _

_The nausea- inducing scent of blood curls into my nostrils as he address me directly. I hang my head, defeated. "Yes it would," I mutter. _

"_Let that sentiment extend to all of your other family members as well. Your lovely mother, not to mention all those '_cousins_.' " The look he gives me says clearly that he knows the Hawthorne's are not related to me. But he is not yet finished. _

"_And as for you, Mr. Mellark, I understand that your family runs the bakery back in your charming district?" Peeta gives a sharp nod of his head. "Well, do tell them to stay safe. Twelve has all that coal dust in the air, and those ovens at the bakery… well, accidents happen. Let's hope they don't." _

"_Yes sir," Peeta says coolly. _

"_Excellent. Now you will both be escorted to your prep teams to await further instructions," Snow says, summoning two Peacekeepers into the room. "Oh, and by the way… Congratulations on your engagement." _

_Peeta grabs my hand and I turn away from Snow's satisfied face, desperate to leave this place of blood and roses as the Peacekeepers usher us from the room. _

Once Peeta and I are dressed and seated in the dining car, Haymitch takes his place at the table, eying us warily.

"Rough night?" he asks, gesturing with his fork to the swelling that still lingers around my bloodshot eyes. Peeta shoots him a dark look before giving a tight- lipped answer.

"It wasn't the easiest, no."

"Well, you better get used to it. Until you're both too old and washed up like me," says Haymitch. "Really, you two should count yourselves lucky. Look at Finnick."

"Enough, Haymitch!" Peeta glares at our mentor, silently daring him to continue.

"I'm just saying, it could be worse," he shrugs, ignoring Peeta's warning. I clutch a steak knife in my hand and try to fight the sudden, violent urge to fling it at Haymitch.

The reality that Peeta and I, "the star-crossed lovers of District 12," will be summoned to the Capitol every few months to perform whatever erotic fantasies the perverted president and his advisors dream up hits me with the force of a freight train. There is no end in sight. Not until we succumb to an addiction of some kind and become too undesirable for the job, anyway.

I regard Haymitch as he takes a swig from his pocket flask, thinking fleetingly that it might not be so bad- an alcohol addiction. Numb the pain and bring you closer to death at the same time. Win- win. Only I still have Prim depending on me, whereas Haymitch has nothing but Ripper's white liquor and his lonely home in the Victor's Village.

Still, I find myself strangely jealous of my mentor. His family is already long gone in punishment for outwitting the Gamemakers. Inadvertently, Haymitch had sold the lives of his loved ones for his so- called freedom. I wonder if he thinks it is worth it.

One glance in the haunted, watered- down gray eyes of the drunk tells me that it isn't.

Somehow, this knowledge hardens my weakening resolve. I'm doing this for Prim, although I'm adamant that she will _never_ find out about this. But it does make the whole situation a little easier for me to stomach.

I squeeze Peeta's hand in my own and dig into my breakfast plate. When the train rolls into the station, Prim is there to meet us and I smile for the first time in weeks.

* * *

Peeta is always careful to give me my space in the days after we arrive home from the Capitol. He usually withdraws into his empty house and busies himself with his baking or his painting, or whatever it is that Peeta does to numb the pain and humiliation. For my part, I take to the woods. Hunting and foraging is usually enough to occupy my mind, even though my family has more than enough now with my victor's winnings. I still hunt for Gale's family, though. Occasionally I'll even spend an entire day just sitting on the crest of the hill overlooking the valley. Sometimes I dare to wonder what would have happened had I chosen to run away as Gale suggested once upon a time.

But it doesn't really matter. Dwelling on the past will not change the present. My present, my _reality_ is putting on a show for the people of the Capitol. I am President Snow's perfect little victor puppet, and there is nothing I can do to change that.

The day after we arrived back in District 12, I'm sitting at the kitchen table cleaning fresh game while Prim chatters away about Cinna, who came to have her fitted for her bridesmaid's dress while I was away. "Oh, Katniss, it's just the most beautiful dress. I'm sure you'll love it when you see it! Cinna said he picked the color to exactly match my eyes," Prim gushes.

I smile and nod in all the right places, hoping that my sister doesn't notice that my heart is really not in the conversation. Thinking about the approaching wedding makes my stomach churn.

"_Wouldn't it be lovely to hold the wedding right after the festivities of the Quarter Quell?"_ Snow exclaimed jovially to the excitable crowd directly after Peeta's proposal. With that, it was decided. The wedding is to be an outrageously lavish affair held at the president's mansion, and then there is the wedding _night_ to worry about, which will undoubtedly be filmed. The entire situation looms like a dark mass of storm clouds over my head.

Unfortunately, Prim is much too sharp for the average twelve- year- old. Her cheerful babble falters when she sees the look on my face. "Katniss, are you okay?" she questions. "You look pale. Maybe you should lay down for a while."

"No, no. I'm fine, little duck. Still tired from the trip, that's all." I do my best to plaster a convincing smile on my face. Prim eyes me suspiciously, but says nothing more. I go back to gutting the squirrel and keep my eyes averted from my sister's concerned gaze.

Hours later, I lay in bed missing Peeta's warm, secure body wrapped around me. I remind myself that I'm not supposed to miss him, but I can't deny that without him I succumb to the nightmares. I know they're lurking in my subconscious, just waiting for my mind to shut down. To become vulnerable to the images I work so hard to repress while I'm awake.

With a sigh of frustration, I turn to look at my clock. Three in the morning. I could sneak out now and spend a few hours with Peeta until he wakes with the sun as usual, then return home before my family knows I'm gone.

But I can't do that. Going to Peeta right now would violate the tentative boundaries we unwittingly put in place when we're home in District 12. I'll admit that I'm not sure exactly _what_ we are here, but I think we are something resembling friends. Nothing more.

I haven't even spoken to Peeta since we arrived back in the district yesterday, despite the fact that he dropped off a couple of fresh loaves of bread before making his rounds in the Seam this morning. It dawns on me that he must be very lonely if he has time to bake so much bread. I know that his family refused to move in with him after the Games, preferring to remain above the bakery they still need to run, and Haymitch is so drunk most of the time that he doesn't make for very pleasant company.

An overwhelming surge of guilt washes over me. I don't know how to handle this new, delicate relationship with Peeta, so I've essentially abandoned him like the rest of the people in his life. I accept his comfort and reassurance when we're alone, but leave him to his own devices back home in the real world. I take everything he offers and give nothing in return. I feel disgusted with myself, but at the same time I have an irrational hatred toward him for making me feel this way.

I realize that it's not just now that I don't know how to act around Peeta. It's always been that way between us. From the time he gave me the bread we spent years exchanging nothing but the occasional awkward glance from opposite ends of the schoolyard. And now there's so much more between us, but I'm still lost around him.

I don't know what it is about the boy with the bread that has this effect on me. There is just something about Peeta that leaves me pondering for hours in the dark, my thoughts and feelings all jumbling together into a confusing mass of emotions until they are no longer distinguishable. Usually I give up at this point and try to push them all aside. Lock them into a drawer in the back of my mind, but I'm finding that strategy no longer works. The drawer is getting too full. I'll have to deal with its contents eventually.

I'm not really one for words, but I find myself desperately wishing there was someone who could help me sort it all out. But I am Katniss Everdeen- tough and proud, close to so few people. Katniss Everdeen, who keeps her feelings so secret and guarded that I'm not even sure of them myself.

My mother, Gale, Haymitch, Cinna, even Prim- none of them truly know me. None of them would be able to fully appreciate my situation. Haymitch might have some small understanding, but there is no bit of drunken advice that I haven't heard from him already. _Consider yourselves lucky…_ wafts through my mind and I give an involuntary shudder.

If I'm being honest with myself, the only person with whom I've ever been truly unguarded and vulnerable is Peeta himself. He has seen the pain in my eyes as we've been exploited for the pleasure of the Capitolite viewing audience. He has witnessed my weakness and allowed me to sob freely into his shoulder at night. But going to see him with our tentative boundaries still firmly in place isn't an option anymore than it is going to Haymitch at the moment.

Resigned to the fact that I'm on my own for the night, I huff angrily and roll on my side. I curl in upon myself and try to rest without the embrace of the strong, comforting arms to which I have grown so accustomed. Sleep never comes.

I remain in a bad mood for the duration of my hunt the next morning; grateful at least that Gale is preoccupied in the mines, for he surely would have asked what is wrong. My spirits lift slightly when I stumble upon the strawberry patch in the woods, finding it overflowing with ripe fruit. Before I know it, I'm on the Undersee's doorstep with a large bushel in my hands.

Madge's face breaks into a smile when she opens the door to see me standing there. "Katniss! I didn't know you were back yet," she says by way of greeting.

I hold up the strawberries. "No trades today, but I thought you might like to share," I offer timidly. Madge gives a cheerful nod and leads me through her house and into the cavernous kitchen, where she sets to washing the fruit. In a flash, she's pulled out some fancy dishes and handed me a large bowl of strawberries adorned with a dollop of cream.

"So how was the Capitol?" Madge takes a seat next to me at the table and tucks into her own bowl. I shrug.

"Same as usual. Colorful. Loud." _Perverted. Vomit- inducing,_ I add in my head. I know better than to speak my mind here in the Mayor's mansion, which is surely bugged. Madge nods, seeming to understand without further explanation on my part.

"Well I met Cinna while you were away," she says, spearing a strawberry with her fork.

"Oh yeah, Prim told me he was here. Did you like him?"

"Not at all what I expected from a Capitol guy, from what I've seen from Effie Trinket and on TV," Madge says, chewing thoughtfully. "But he was really nice. And my dress is stunning, so I can only imagine how beautiful yours is." My stomach gives a sharp twang. We are already at the wedding, the very topic I can't bear to discuss. I dive into the bowl of strawberries in front of me, praying that Madge does not notice my disquiet.

But much like Prim, Madge has a subtle sort of intuitiveness about her. "Is something wrong, Katniss?" she prods gently. I allow myself a moment to ruminate on her question. I hadn't even considered Madge last night at my sudden desire to discuss my problem with Peeta, and yet it was as if my subconscious had guided me to that strawberry patch this morning. Being the Mayor's daughter, Madge might have an idea of the inner workings of the Capitol, but I can't be sure. She is so sheltered from much of what goes on here in the district, so how much can she know about the Capitol?

However, I decided on the way over here that Madge has proven she truly is my friend. This is what normal girl friends do, right? Gossip about clothes and hair and, most of all, boy troubles.

She doesn't need all the details, after all. I can leave out the role that President Snow and the potential rebellion play in it all. I don't want my one female friendship tainted with that knowledge anyway. Besides, Madge has had her fair share of experiences with boys. She might actually have some worthy advice to give.

I choose my words with caution. "I'm just… not sure about the wedding. If I'm ready for that." Madge doesn't seem taken aback or shocked whatsoever by this news. She forks another strawberry.

"That's not surprising," she says easily. "You're both still so young and you've had, well, a _long_ year to say the least. What's the rush, anyway?"

"People kind of… expect it. You know, the star- crossed lovers and all." Heat rises to my cheeks and I roll my eyes, but Madge nods thoughtfully.

"That still doesn't mean you should do something you're not ready to do," she counters.

"But what if I don't really have a choice?" I whisper before I can stop myself. I'm surprised to see a flickering of understanding and sympathy cross my friend's face. Perhaps Madge _does_ know more than she's letting on.

"Then Katniss… I think that you are the bravest, most selfless person I've ever met. And for what it's worth, Peeta really is an amazing guy. The best in the district, I think. He'll be kind to you." She reaches for my hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze, her kind blue eyes empathetic and sincere. It makes me feel a tiny bit better knowing that at least one person is on my side.

* * *

**A/N:** I've mapped out the rest of this story, and it will be approx 6-7 parts total. I'll try my best to update regularly, but I am a busy college student and homework unfortunately takes precedence over pleasure writing.

That's all for now. Thank you so much for reading and please leave a review on your way out. Nothing makes me happier than getting feedback on something I've put so much work into, and I love hearing your thoughts! xoxo


	3. Part 2

The next time I pass by Peeta's lonely house after my morning hunt, I try to shove the guilt out of my mind before entering my own home. The basket of fresh cheese buns on the counter only makes me feel worse for not having visited him at all in the week that we've been back from the Capitol. I ought to make sure he's doing okay, but I don't really know how to broach the meeting.

_Selfless and brave,_ Madge called me. Well, how brave am I that I can face an arena full of tributes and mutts programmed to kill me, yet I cannot summon the courage to go and see my fiancé?

It is sure to be an awkward meeting, but in a sudden rush of determination, I sling my game bag over my shoulder and march out of the kitchen. This has to happen at some point, and with the wedding drawing ever nearer… it should happen sooner rather than later.

Still, I stand on Peeta's threshold for several minutes debating with myself. Should I knock? I don't want to barge in on him, but on the other hand, we-Haymitch, Peeta, and I- don't usually knock at each other's doors. If I did now, it might seem too formal. That decides it.

Before I can change my mind altogether, I take a deep breath, twist the doorknob (unlocked, as I expected) and step into his entryway. I tiptoe a few feet into the foyer and peer around the corner into the kitchen and living room. Peeta is nowhere to be seen.

"Peeta?" I call out nervously. I'm not sure he's even home. He could be at his family's bakery or with Haymitch for all I know. But then I hear the rustling from above and Peeta tramps down the stairs a moment later to find me standing awkwardly in his kitchen.

"Oh! Hey, Katniss. Sorry, I didn't hear you come in," he says. A smudge of brown paint is streaked across his flushed cheek and I can see more clumped under his nails.

"You were painting," I say, pointing out the obvious.

Peeta blushes a little deeper. "Um… yeah. I kind of get lost in the zone when I'm in my studio." He runs his fingers over the top of his head, transferring the wet paint from his hands into his hair. It looks a just little bit ridiculous.

An involuntary smile curls my lips at the sight. Standing in the soft glow of the kitchen lighting with his round, rosy cheeks and twinkling blue eyes and blonde curls, Peeta looks so boyish and innocent in this moment. Quite unlike the hardened man who has so often shared my bed.

I realize that we've been standing in silence for far too long as I've been staring at him. My mind flounders to remember why I'm even here in the first place. Luckily, the weight of the game bag on my shoulder reminds me of my purpose.

"Um, anyway, I wanted to thank you for all the bread you've been sending over. I thought you might like this." I hold up a freshly skinned squirrel from the game bag.

Peeta wrinkles his nose at it. The effect only serves to make him look even younger. "Um… thanks," he says. I hand him the squirrel and he stands with it pinched between his paint- free thumb and forefinger, clearly at a loss for what to do with it. "Ah, I guess I should put it in the fridge?"

I snort and try not to roll my eyes, unsuccessfully. "Give it here," I sigh. Peeta hands the game back to me eagerly, watching on as I rummage through his cabinets for a bowl, fill it with a salt- water mixture, and drop the meat into it. Then I cover the bowl and stick it in the fridge. "Make sure you eat it within a couple of days, or else it'll go bad," I warn, spinning on my heel for the door.

"Thanks Katniss!" he calls after me. I turn back around to grin at him.

"I could bring you another one tomorrow if you want?" I offer. Peeta's face breaks into a shy grin.

"I would like that."

It becomes our routine quickly enough. Peeta bakes enough bread to feed the entire district and I come by with fresh game.

One day I discover his sketchbook laying open in the living room. Flipping through it, I find that it's filled with renderings of scenery from all over Panem.

Some are obvious, like the beach in District 4 and the skyline of the factory smokestacks in 3. Others are subtler, not as easily identifiable as belonging to a certain district if you hadn't been there to witness it. Like the stalks of wheat from 11 and the bark of a tree in 7. One thing the drawings all have in common is the absolutely exquisite detail. I knew Peeta was good- I've seen his paintings, after all- but the sketchbook is just a testament to how talented he truly is.

When I ask Peeta how he possibly had time to draw all of this during our Victory Tour- because that had to have been when he did the majority of this work, yet I had never witnessed him doing it- he says, "Well, your prep time takes a lot longer than mine. I had a lot of free time on my hands." He chuckles, shrugging his shoulders. "It's an escape. I needed something to draw other than my nightmares."

At his admission, his eyes become downcast and the rare lighthearted moment between us is gone.

Nevertheless, I take to bringing my family's book of medicinal and edible herbs to his house in the weeks after I find his sketchbook. We never discuss the encroaching wedding or our time together in the Capitol, but I find a soothing comfort in watching Peeta draw the plants as I describe them.

His brow furrows in concentration as he tries to get the sketch exactly right and he has a habit of pinching his full, pink lips between his teeth. Sometimes the tip of his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth and I'm overwhelmed with memories of what that tongue tastes like. How it feels warm and languid against my own. Usually when this happens I squirm in my place next to him, unable to sit still.

Sometimes I ask him to redo a drawing just so I can watch him all over again.

One day I enter Peeta's kitchen to find him nowhere in sight. He does not appear when I call out for him, so I leave my game bag on the kitchen table and go in search of him.

"Peeta?" I call, my voice reverberating throughout the empty house. I poke my head into his bedroom, noting by the neatly made bed that he is not there. I check the bathroom- only to find that it too, is empty- before opening the door to his studio.

"Peeta? Are you in he-" my voice falters as my eyes sweep the room. Some of the paintings in here are the same ones he showed me during the Victory Tour. The portraits of the Games and myself, mostly, but there are a few new works scattered around as well.

The canvas leaning carelessly against a dresser in the corner depicts a sickeningly familiar room. A room with rich, golden tones and a high ceiling and an enormous bed that takes up most of the space. A lonely stiletto heel lies on the dark wood floor.

Shivers run up my spine. I tear my eyes away, my attention refocusing on an easel in the opposite corner of the room. A simple, white sheet conceals the canvas from me.

I glance around nervously, knowing that I should not invade Peeta's privacy like this. Really, I shouldn't even be here when he's clearly not home, but the curiosity is overwhelming. My stealthy hunter's feet have carried me to the easel before I can even stop myself. I clutch the sheet in my hand and pull.

A strangled gasp leaves my mouth as my eyes fall upon my own likeness.

It's obvious that she is meant to be me, but the girl on the canvas is far more beautiful than I am in real life. Her painted olive cheeks are flushed and I can't miss the sorrow that floods her unmistakable Seam eyes. Her hair falls in luscious, shiny waves around her shoulders. Her lips are full and pink. Her breasts peek out at the very bottom of the painting, small and rounded, impeccably captured by Peeta's careful hand.

The girl's painted hands are bound to the bedpost above her head with a short length of rope. I can almost feel the rough fibers rubbing my wrists raw as much as I can recall the misery in Peeta's gentle eyes as he had completed that particular task.

A large lump is forming in my throat. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Not even bothering to replace the sheet, I make to flee from the room, but I slam right into a solid body instead. Instinctively, it seems, Peeta's arms rise to wrap around me, holding me in place.

I had not even heard him enter the room, despite the loud uneven footsteps that never fail to alert me to his presence. I can't look into his face as he holds me, fearful of his reaction to catching me snooping.

"I-I'm sorry," I stutter, "I shouldn't have…"

"No, I shouldn't have painted it," he says, carefully avoiding my eyes. "I'll get rid of it."

"You don't have to do that," I whisper, shaking my head. He says nothing more, but the grief is clearly evident in every premature line of his young face. It is the same look that has haunted his features since that very first session in the Capitol. The one that makes him look far older than his short seventeen years reveal. He looks like a weary, beaten- down man with no hope left in the world.

I hate that look.

I find myself aching for Peeta back- _my_ Peeta. The boy that reminds me of frosting and dandelions and sunshine. The boy that threw bread to a starving little Seam girl simply because he is a kind, caring, compassionate person. But the boy with the bread is long gone. This empty shell of a man with nothing but these canvas renderings of his own hellish reality has replaced him.

Part of that, I know, is my fault. I've shied away from this part of Peeta's life. I've closed myself off from him when he needed me most, when I'm the only person in the world that understands.

There is no doubt that we have become closer, something akin to actual friends in the past couple of weeks. But at the end of the day, I always go home to my family while Peeta is left alone in this empty house, abandoned in this room to paint to cruel nightmares that haunt his mind.

I've spent so much time dwelling on how everything- the Games, the Capitol sessions, the impending marriage- is affecting _me_, and how it is disrupting _my_ life. Not once had I stopped to think how all of it had ruined Peeta's life, too. He never wanted this anymore than I did.

Now I come to the same conclusion that if I was to be completely honest with myself, I'd reached earlier. I need Peeta, and he needs me. It's just that I hadn't been able to admit it to myself at the time. The truth of this is so clearly evident in his paintings that I feel a fresh swoop of sickening guilt in my stomach. I want to say that I'm sorry for lying to Peeta, for distancing myself from him when he has been nothing but tender and sympathetic towards me.

I open my mouth to speak, but the apology sticks in my throat. And because I don't have Peeta's golden tongue, the words will not come. So I kiss him.

I kiss him because I'm sorry, because I have no words, and because the sudden craving for his full, soft lips hits me like an arrow to the chest.

Peeta seems too shocked by this abrupt turn of events to respond for several seconds, but then he's kissing me back. His mouth opens to my needy tongue and I feel like I'm on fire.

This is nothing like our other kisses, the faux ones for the cameras. This kiss is passion and desire and _hunger_. It makes me want more. Our tongues dance together in the slippery heat of Peeta's mouth for as long as possible before we have to break apart, gasping for air.

Panting slightly, Peeta leans down to rest his forehead against mine. My hands find the hem of his paint- splattered t- shirt and push it up to his ribcage, but he catches my wrists and holds them steady, preventing me from going any further.

"We can't, Katniss. I… not like this. I don't want it if it's fake." His statement gives me pause, but Peeta does not stop there. He lifts his head to look straight into my eyes. "And just because you're marrying me doesn't mean you're stuck with me for good. We'll do our sessions and then come home and you can be with whomever you want. Or you can be alone. I'm not going to force you to live with me or… or _be_ with me if that's not what you want. I just want you to be happy."

The words tumble from his mouth in a breathless rush. He seems determined to say everything we've been tiptoeing around the past few weeks. I consider what he's telling me, what he's willing to sacrifice for me, and I find that I don't need to hear it. I _want_ to be with Peeta, and not because it is forced upon us.

"No," I say, my hands still fisted in his shirt. The words I could not say earlier bubble to the surface. "I owe you an apology. I haven't really been there for you and we're a team. We are supposed to protect each other and I… I failed. I'm so sorry."

Peeta opens his mouth to respond, but I cut him off. "You have to understand that I didn't want to marry anyone. Ever. But now… I'm glad it's you. I'm _lucky_ it's you. And… I want it to be real, too."

The last part comes out a whisper as I peek up at Peeta through my eyelashes. He looks disbelieving. "You mean it?" he asks, incredulously. I nod eagerly and bring my lips back to his. Soon he breaks away to trail kisses down my neck, my knees buckling as he teases my flesh with his tongue.

"I want to do this right- just once before we're married," he breathes into my skin.

"Okay," I whisper.

"Then you'll allow it?"

"I'll allow it."

With that, Peeta places his hand behind my quaking knees, scooping me into his arms and dropping me gently on the couch across the room. I grab his collar and pull him down to meld our lips together again while his large hands busy themselves caressing my entire body. He touches me hungrily, as though he'll never get enough, his skilled fingers leaving a trail of burning heat in their wake.

Soon I'm so flushed and sensitive that I can't stand it anymore. I yank at the hem of his shirt and he finally allows me to pull it over his head.

He has gained back the muscle he lost in the Games, and then some, it seems. Of course, I've seen him shirtless since then- many times- but this is the first time I have taken a moment to appreciate it. I run my hands over the hard planes of his body and through the dusting of pale blond hair on his chest. He really is beautiful.

Peeta removes my own shirt, his practiced hands easily unlatching my bra and discarding both items on the floor.

"Can I try something new?" he whispers between frenzied kisses. "I want to make _you_ feel good for a change." I can only nod my yes, rendered speechless by his thumbs circling over my erect nipples.

Suddenly, his weight disappears from on top of me. I whimper, wanting him back. But Peeta is sliding to his knees on the floor before the couch. His strong hands wrap around my hips and tug them to the edge of the seat. Ever so slowly, he pulls my pants and underwear down my legs so that I sit sprawled and bare before him.

Despite our various sessions in the Capitol, I don't think that Peeta has ever gotten such an intimate view of me before. It make me feels self- conscious as he stares hungrily at me, especially because I have not kept up with all the stringent routine of grooming and waxing that my prep team inflicted on me. As a result, a small patch of dark curls has resurfaced between my thighs. My first instinct is to clinch my legs together, but Peeta anticipates this. He places his hands on my inner thighs to prevent them from closing.

"Do you trust me, Katniss?" His voice is deep and husky, but his indigo eyes, though clouded with lust, remain gentle as they fix on mine. I can't help but trust those eyes.

With my nod of affirmation, his head dips between my legs. I gasp at the first trace of his tongue between my folds. The sensation is so unexpected and shocking that it is almost too much. My legs try to snap shut again, but Peeta holds them open, his tongue diving into my wet heat.

It is plainly evident in his enthusiasm that this is something Peeta has been saving for just the two of us. He has never done _this_ for the cameras. It makes the act feel all the more intimate.

Peeta allows his tongue to explore my slick inner walls before making his way up to the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of my center. I almost scream out loud in ecstasy when he sucks it into his mouth. The feeling is like nothing else in the world. My fingers wind themselves into his hair, my head falls back against the couch cushions. My eyes squeezed shut as he licks and nips and sucks to a point where I will surely explode.

Now my thighs fall open to welcome him further and one of his hands leaves my leg to palm my aching breasts as he works. He tweaks my nipples and sucks at my flesh and it is all becoming too much…

The warmth builds in my center, creeping out the very tips of my fingers and toes before exploding in a fiery wave of pleasure that courses through every facet of my body as I scream out Peeta's name.

As I come down, my eyes open in time to see Peeta place one last kiss to the juncture of my thighs before he grins up at me. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, too, but then something else catches my eye.

The sinister green eyes of Glimmer's mutt invade my periphery, pulling me back into reality with an alarming crash. Images of the Games glare at me from every corner of the room, frighteningly realistic in Peeta's depictions. The hellish arena and the cornucopia filled with weapons and poor, poor Rue with a spear in her stomach. There is no escaping it.

"Hey, hey Katniss. It's okay. Don't look at them." Peeta has evidently realized the source of my panicked distraction. "Look at me. Just at me," he coaxes, climbing back onto the couch. My frantic gray eyes find his startlingly blue ones above me once more and he smiles.

I'm still naked and he is in nothing but his underwear, but I don't feel exposed or vulnerable when Peeta lays down on his side and pulls my back flush with his chest. The feeling of his bare skin against mine is comforting, safe. I tilt my head back, searching. He knows what I want, and when his lips connect with mine, I can taste my own fluids lingering there along with the familiar sweet taste that is Peeta. The heady mixture is strangely intoxicating.

My arm wraps around his neck to pull him even closer, my fingers twisting in the hair at the nape of his neck. His lips are warm and wanting and finally, I lose myself in the kiss. I forget about the paintings, the Games, Snow- those things no longer exist. The only thing in that matters in the entire world is the boy holding me on our little couch.

His big, calloused hands are spanning my body again. I register the hardness pressed firmly against my backside. I grind into it slightly, making Peeta groan into my mouth. I reach behind me for the waistband of his underwear, and together, we work to shimmy them down his legs. He kicks them the rest of the way off with his good foot. I tilt my hips into him and Peeta pulls my leg over his hip, shifting so that his shaft rests between my legs. I'm unable to keep the soft whimpers from falling from my mouth when he begins thrusting slowly through my folds, coating himself in my arousal. The friction sets my nerves tingling, but it isn't enough. I need _all_ of him, but I can see I his eyes that he is waiting for me to give the okay. He will not do this without my full consent as we have been forced to do so often before. This time it's real.

I'm no good with words, so I revert back to the same secret language we use during filming. At my small nod of the head, Peeta aligns himself with my center, but does not push in. I squirm against him, the anticipation just too much already, but he holds me in place.

"You've had your shot, right?" he questions.

I nod fervently. "Yes, yes, in the Capitol. _Please_, Peeta," I beg.

He melds his lips to mine and slides achingly slowly into my waiting heat. We moan into each other's mouths when he is finally sheathed within me. I revel in the sensation of him filling me, stretching me, occupying a place in my heart that I didn't even know was empty. I can't believe that this can feel so different, so much _better_ after all the times I've done this with Peeta. This time does not feel like an invasion. This time my body seems to welcome him.

With no cameras, no audience, no pressure, I find myself able to concentrate on the intimacy of it all. The way he slips in and out of me with ease, no lubrication oil needed like we typically have to use. The way his muscled arms hold me tight against him. The way his hands span my stomach, kneed my breasts. The sensations set my sweaty skin buzzing.

My head falls back against Peeta's shoulder when one of those hands drifts down between my legs once more. The fire is spreading again, the waves of pleasure threatening to overtake me.

"Let go, Katniss," Peeta breathes into my ear. And I do. The blaze rushes through my veins, even more all- consuming than before. I can't help the way my eyes slam shut and my back arches away from Peeta's chest as the indescribable feeling washes over me.

My walls contract around him, and I feel his thrusts becoming faster, harder, more erratic. He is close.

Sure enough I feel him swell within me just seconds later. The only sounds in the room are our slowing breaths as the last vestiges of ecstasy course through our veins.

With trembling arms, Peeta shifts so that he is lying back on the couch, then rolls me so that I'm sprawled on top of him. My head finds a natural resting place in the crook of his neck.

I don't know how long we lay together, breaths mingling, hearts thrumming. All I know is that this time there will be no knock on the door to bring us back into reality. The only real thing in the world is Peeta, and I will never let him go.

It might be minutes, or maybe even hours before I break the sleepy silence between us. "Peeta, will you marry me? For real?" The words slip from my mouth before I have time to really process them.

"What are you saying?" he asks cautiously.

"I'm saying, let's have a toasting. Tonight. That way it's real. It's for us and the Capitol can't have it," I explain hastily, desperate for him to understand.

"I don't want this if you're just doing it to defy Snow." Peeta shakes his head morosely.

"Peeta, I do want this. I want to marry you. I just… I want it to be our choice. It should be our moment, not theirs. Let's do this right. Will you marry me?" I'm out of breath and I probably sound like a crazy person, but after a few moments of contemplation, Peeta's face splits in a wide grin.

"Okay," he agrees.

* * *

**A/N:** I should take a moment here to mention that the title, _More Than Words,_ is derived from the song of the same name by Extreme. This is not a songfic by any means, but I feel like the overall message of the song (that its important to _show_ someone you love them rather than just saying the words "I love you." Basically, actions speak louder than words) fits Katniss and Peeta's relationship perfectly. Neither of them ever says, "I love you" outright to the other in canon, but we still know they love each other through their actions, and I think that is a hugely important quality in a relationship.

Thank you for reading, and as always, I love hearing from you! Reviews are love, so let me know what you thought of this chapter!

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Until the next update! xoxo


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